


kairosclerosis

by DaytimeShootingStars



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, OCs - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, drabbles and short stories, of a nameless couple, stress reliever for me these days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaytimeShootingStars/pseuds/DaytimeShootingStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"What’s your name?" He asks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She smiles, then. Smiles as the walls crumble around them and as her vision recedes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I don’t know."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we're still hoping, we're still dying

The morning light is cruel. It creeps in through cracks they never bothered to fix, illuminates corners of their room they would rather keep in the dark. It brings forth memories that they had buried, both of them, buried under the ground and under all the pain and the scars.

“Make it stop,” She whispers from under the covers. He has to come closer to hear her. “Make it stop.”

“I can’t.” He says, gently, knowing that she’s still half-asleep. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

She makes a sound that’s like a cry and a strained laugh. “Why are you apologizing?”

He gazes at the clean sheets he set last night. The clock on the wall, finally ticking after he brought spare batteries. The rug is clean, the table is polished, the curtains are mended.

He looks at her, only, she’s buried herself under the covers. From right beside her, he’s close enough to imagine her heart. Imagine the cracks on it. He thinks about her room - _their_ room - almost new from his work. _A new start_ , he had told her.

He doesn’t say it, and she’s back to sleep anyways, but still. He thinks it. And he hopes she can hear him.

 

_I’m sorry for saying that I could fix everything._

\-----

Kairosclerosis

n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.

=

A/N:

Hello  
As I've mentioned in the tags, this is my stress reliever for the bad days. They're senseless drabbles about different moments these two people experience. It makes me feel comfortable that they have no names, no ties, they're just people and I just want to make a life for them. I'll be avoiding author's notes for the next chapters.  
So, just a heads up. This isn't fanfiction. Feel free to read if you want to. Feedback would be loved.  
Thank you.  
-Sash


	2. i'll play you a song on an abandoned piano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kairosclerosis
> 
> n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.

Sometimes, there are music sheets in the room.

He never played any instruments, so he knows it can’t be for him. He knows that she’s never played any either. Still, the sheets are here, so they must be for one of them.

He picks one. It’s a series of marks that make a melody, he knows, but can’t understand it. There are tiny notes on the corners of the paper. _What does this mean? Check up on this one! Try Beethoven’s other works._ He can’t help it, he smiles.

The handwriting is familiar. He doesn’t ask her.

When she’s pushed away the dinner he brought that night, he decides to ask her. Then he falters. Then, at last, comes up with something in between.

“Do you,” he coughs, “like… music?” The fork slips from her fingers, hits the plate with a clatter. He flinches; she stares blankly into another place. He doesn’t call her back. It’s a world he’s not a part of.

At some point, after an eternity of waiting, her gaze lands on him. Her eyes are still slightly wide, but she looks calmer now. Serene, even.

“No.” She says, and her voice is hoarse, “I don’t like music. I hate it. I hate music.”

He nods, silently, “Yeah, well, me neither.”

 

The next morning, as she burrows under pillows and dreams, he picks up the sheets. He stacks them up, alphabetically, then numerically, and then finally decides on a haphazard arrangement which feels more like her.

He decides to keep it in his drawer. Considers locking it – after all, only he’s got the key. Reconsiders. Leaves it open anyways.

 

In the end, it’s a world he’s not a part of. And probably never will be.


End file.
